


December 31, 1970

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Megan called the police because she couldn’t think of anything else to do. The tired sounding woman on the other end of the line told her that they would send someone out as soon as they could, but since they had access to water and shelter it wasn’t the highest priority. “‘Cause, ma’am,” she said, “we are having an awful busy night.” Megan thanked her and relayed the news to Michael.</p>
<p>His response was to try and pick the lock with a paperclip. Megan stood patiently behind him, watching him struggle for a few minutes before he gave up. “It’s not as easy as it looks on television,” he admitted."</p>
<p>Megan and Ginsberg get locked in the office on New Year's Eve, because I do love my fandom clichés.</p>
            </blockquote>





	December 31, 1970

**Author's Note:**

> This is cavefic, basically. God bless Star Trek fandom for the tropes it has provided us all.

 

 

The office was dark, but that didn’t mean anything. Megan brushed the snow from her jacket and peered into the familiar gloom. Sure enough, there was a sliver of light coming from the creative lounge. She headed towards it.

She looked around - random magazine pages taped to the walls, art supplies and empty coffee mugs scattered across the table, at least one beer bottle tucked into the cushion of a chair. It looked just as she remembered it.

There was a lamp on, but no one was home. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach - if Don made her come all the way up here for nothing -

She decided to check his office. If he wasn’t there she would head straight out. She had spent enough time waiting around for him.

He wasn’t there.

She was so angry - so _blindly_ angry - that it was a minute before she noticed the man asleep on the couch. He was curled up with his back to her, one arm covering his face.

“Don?” she said, shaking his shoulder.

He sat up with a yell, making her jump back with an undignified squeal of her own. Her heart tried its level best to march right out of her chest.

“What the fuck?” He said in bewilderment, turning around and blinking several times when he saw her, as if he was trying to decide whether she was real or not. “Megan?”

“Michael?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here.”

“I mean in here, specifically,” Megan said, “Where’s Don?”

“I came in for the work that Don was supposed to review this afternoon. I made the mistake of sitting down for a minute.” Michael rubbed his eyes. “Which turned into - what time is it?”

“Ten past nine,” Megan said, checking her watch.

“Christ. And as for Don - he left hours ago. Around six, I think?”

“That asshole!” Megan exploded. She balled her hands into fists and wanted to hit something.

Michael put his hands up like he was being arrested. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger! I had nothing to do with it.”

“I know that!” Megan put her hands over her face and took a few deep breaths to calm down. When she opened her eyes he was looking at her with a concerned expression. “I’m sorry for yelling. I’m just - very, very frustrated. Was he -”

She didn’t want to ask, it didn’t matter, she couldn’t help but ask -

“Had he been drinking? Could you tell?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “He didn’t seem drunk, but I don’t know if that means anything. Why?”

Because she knew what he was like when he was a few sheets to the wind. Because she knew that better than she knew him sober. Because she had spent too many nights lying alone in bed worrying about him and sometimes she worried still.

Megan hadn’t answered, but there was sympathy in Michael’s face all the same. She had tipped her hand and he had _seen_ her, unexpectedly, clearly, and whether she liked it or not. After so much practice she should have been better at hiding her feelings.

She was relieved when he stood up. “Let’s get out of here so you can go on with your night.”

They went to get his coat. She was extra civil in order to make up for her little outburst, asking about the work he had been doing lately. “Anything I might recognize?”

“I got a billboard in Times Square,” he said, trying and failing to sound casual. That was always a big deal.

“Which one?” she asked. “I want to be able to brag that I know the guy behind it.”

“It’s for makeup which, I know, you wouldn’t expect. But I had this idea,” he explained as they walked down the hall, “that makeup is kinda like armor, right? You girls put it on to do battle with the world. So we went with a Joan of Arc theme. The billboard is divided in two, and the top part has a lady’s face, but you can’t tell that ‘cause she’s wearing a knight’s helmet. On the bottom part she has it off, you can see her face now, and it says -”

He tried to open the door. It didn’t move. He jiggled the handle. “Uh.”

“Is it stuck?” Megan asked.

“I think it’s locked,” he said, confused.

“What? _No_.” It couldn’t be. Megan tried to force the door open. It was.

“Look, we’ll go call security. They must not have realised we were still in here.”

They called, in order: security, Joan, Peggy, Stan, and Dawn and Meredith. None of them picked up. Megan phoned Don, because he had gotten her into this mess and he could damn well get her out of it. He wasn’t home either.

“He said he was going to pick up the kids,” Michael said. “Do you know his ex-wife’s number?”

“I’ll bet,” Megan said darkly, and dialed Betty. They had either changed their phone number or Megan was remembering it wrong, because she didn’t get through at all. So much for that.

Megan called the police because she couldn’t think of anything else to do. The tired sounding woman on the other end of the line told her that they would send someone out as soon as they could, but since they had access to water and shelter it wasn’t the highest priority. “‘Cause, ma’am,” she said, “we are having an awful busy night.” Megan thanked her and relayed the news to Michael.

His response was to try and pick the lock with a paperclip. Megan stood patiently behind him, watching him struggle for a few minutes before he gave up. “It’s not as easy as it looks on television,” he admitted.

They went to the breakroom and sat dejectedly at the table without speaking. There was confetti on the floor and a suitably pathetic Happy New Year banner taped to the door.

“Did you have a party?” Megan asked eventually.

“Yeah,” He said. “There’s cake in the fridge. You want some?”

“No,” Megan said, still deep in her sulk. “I’m not hungry.”

“You look like you were on your way to someplace fancy.”

“My friend Julia is having a party,” Megan sighed. “I should call her and let her know I won’t be there.”

“We might get out yet,” Michael said. “The cops -”

The wail of a siren from outside cut him off. It went speeding past and trailed away.

“But probably not,” he said.

Megan did go phone Julia. Nobody picked up, which was only to be expected. The party would be in full swing by now - the chances of the phone being heard were slim. Megan had been running a little late.

Michael was making coffee when she got back. He handed her a mug. “I didn’t put anything in it. I don’t know what you like.”

“Thanks,” she said, and stirred in a little sugar. It reminded her of the old days, burning the midnight oil and leaning on caffeine for last-minute inspiration. That is, when Don would allow her to join in. He was always interrupting.

“Did you have any plans?” Megan asked. He didn’t look dressed to go out, but she couldn’t tell with him.

“I never have plans. I was just gonna go home and watch Guy Lombardo.”

“At least you aren’t missing much.”

“Just listening to my old man snore when he falls asleep in his chair.” He sat back down, rolling one shoulder and wincing.

“Did you pull a muscle?” Megan asked. She wondered if they could raid somebody’s liquor cabinet to spice up the coffee. It was a holiday, after all.

“No. Just stiff. I shouldn’t have slept all crunched up like that.”

“Let’s go sit in creative,” Megan suggested. “It’s more comfortable, at least.”

He tidied up when they got there, gathering up mugs and bottles repentantly. “We weren’t expecting company,” he said, and she laughed.

“I used to work here, remember?” she said. “Nothing can shock me.”

Michael found a pack of cards, so they played poker using office miscellania as their currency. He was a terrible player with no poker face to speak of, so half an hour in Megan was up a pile of erasers and about a million bucks.

“I’m going to be a rich woman,” she said smugly, looking at her latest hand.

“And I’m gonna fold,” he said, setting his cards down. “And if you think you’re getting a penny from me, think again. You got no witnesses.”

“I have bragging rights, which is better.” She flashed a smile at him and showed him her cards. She had been bluffing.

“I give up. You’re kicking my ass.” He pushed his pile of pencil stubs and magazine clippings towards her. She took them enthusiastically.

She was starting to have fun, in spite of herself. There were worse ways to pass the time than playing cards with someone pleasant. It helped that he was being a good sport about getting locked in. Her night wasn’t the only one that was ruined and if he could get over it so could she. She had always thought he was a little bit sweet, if also odd.

Megan shuffled the cards, putting the deck back together. She had an idea. She didn’t know if it was a good idea or a bad one, but she had an idea.

“Michael,” she said, “If we do get out of here while the night is still young, do you want to come to the party with me?”

He gaped at her. It would have been funny if it wasn’t also slightly sad. She half-expected him to look over his shoulder to see if she was talking to someone else.

“For real?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “It might be fun - meeting some new people. More exciting than Guy Lombardo, in any case.”

“Sure,” he said. “That sounds great. I mean, if you really don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” she reassured him. She was looking forward to it. Julia wouldn’t care if she brought a plus one. Except -

“I might have to abandon you once we get there, though,” she warned. “At least briefly.”

“What for?”

“Julia wanted me to meet someone. We’re going to be so delayed it may not matter, but - I did promise.”

“You still want me to come?” he asked, concerned. “Won’t I be interrupting your date?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it a date.” In truth, she hadn’t been looking forward to that part of the evening’s intended entertainment. She disliked setups of any kind. There was too much pressure involved. She liked to meet someone in a natural way and just see where it went.

“I hate when people do that to me,” he muttered.

“That sounds like it has a story behind it.”

“A couple, unfortunately.” He didn’t elaborate further.

“And?” she prompted. When he shook his head she scooped her ‘money’ and offered it to him. “You can have my winnings.”

“There’s an offer I can’t refuse,” he said. “But it’s a stupid story.”

“I like stupid stories,” she said eagerly.

“Then me and you should get along just fine.” He smiled ruefully. “Stan set me up with this friend of his - Hannah, her name was. And we went to a movie, and then for a drink after. And things were going okay - I thought so, anyway. But there we were at the bar, and her ex-boyfriend shows up. And comes over to say hello. And to tell her how very much he’s missed her.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. They got back together. Right that minute. It was a touching scene.”

“But not for you.”

“On the other hand,” he said brightly, “Stan felt so bad about the whole thing that he hasn’t brought up blind dates since.”

“There’s a silver lining to everything,” Megan said, and made a face as she swallowed the last of her cold coffee.

“Can I ask you a question?” He looked at her intently, with the kind of focus she had only seen from him when he was working, hot on the trail of a tremendous idea. It was slightly unsettling. “Why’d you come up here?”

She blinked, not understanding. “Don said the kids had a present for me. From Christmas.”

“No, I meant - why not get him to drop it off? Or he could have left it at the reception desk. You didn’t need to come meet him.”

Megan bit her lip. It was so hard to explain.

“He was my husband,” she said, and sucked in a shocked breath. She hadn’t intended to say that. She swallowed around the bitter lump in her throat and felt her face bloom with heat, but whether it was from anger or shame she couldn’t say. “I suppose I never got over the ‘obey’ part of the marriage vows.”

There was part of her that still wanted closure from Don. An indication that he really had been trying, that he had cared enough for that. That he hoped she was okay. And most of all for him to say: It wasn’t your fault.

He would never do any of that. It wasn’t in him. She knew that. She did.

Megan smiled sourly. “You know what the worst part of this is?”

“Megan -”

“He didn’t do this on purpose. He just - forgot. Just like he always did. Because it didn’t matter to him.”

“Megan, I’m sorry, okay? I’m an idiot. I should never have asked. I’m always asking people the wrong questions.” Michael moved closer, reaching for her, and for a second she thought he was going to take her hand. But he stopped when she met his eyes, drawing back and dropping his hands down to his knees. “I gotta learn to mind my own business.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “I actually feel better.” The funny thing was that it was true. She had avoided the subject for so long that it felt good to open the wound and finally let some of the poison out.

“Good,” he said with visible relief. “I was afraid I made things even worse.”

“But I need a drink.”

He started to stand up. “We might have some beer in the fridge.”

Megan was already shaking her head. “I don’t think so. We’re going for the good stuff.”

“What - oh, come on. What if he notices?”

“Then I’ll tell him he owes me,” Megan retorted, leading the way to Don’s office.

 

If Don himself could not be relied upon then at least his supply of alcohol was dependable, always and forever. Megan poured a finger of scotch for each of them. “Bottoms up,” she said, and knocked it back. She hadn’t lost her knack.

The same could not be said for Michael. He choked down the drink - barely - and made a wheezing sound that suggested a major lung condition. “Holy shit,” he croaked, “It’s like drinking iodine.”

“You’ve never had it before?”

He shuddered and put the tumbler down on Don’s desk. “And I never will again.”

“I think it’s okay,” Megan said. “Kind of peaty.”

“That’s because you’ve had all your taste buds burned off from drinking that crap.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a hard drinking adman?” Megan teased.

“If that’s what it takes I’ll pass, thanks.” He sat on the edge of the desk, moving his glass out of the way. She joined him, swinging her legs back and forth like a kid.

“Now I know why Don is always in such a bad temper,” Michael said, casually, as though jokes about his boss and her ex-husband’s drinking problem were in any way appropriate five minutes after their heart-to-heart in creative. His eyes went round and horrified and he pressed his lips together as if he could retroactively stop the sound from escaping.

“ _Michael_ ,” Megan said, aghast. And then she started to laugh, the kind of laughter that keeps going until it becomes silent shaking. She slumped over and wiped her teary eyes on his shirt while he apologized again and again.

“I’m going to stop speaking from this point on,” he promised.

“Don’t you dare,” she said. They were practically lying down, Megan still leaning into his personal space. “I find you entertaining.”

“Really?” He said, pleased, and Megan noticed that he had a very nice smile and a very nice mouth in general.

“You know what bugs me most about getting trapped here?” Megan asked wistfully. “No New Year’s kiss.”

“I never did that,” he said.

“Never?” she asked, softly, letting the ball roll into his court.

The moment stretched out until it threatened to become significant, right up until Michael moved, sitting back up and clearing his throat. “What do you want to do next? I don’t think we’re getting rescued any time soon.”

He was being smart about it. Cautious. Still, she allowed herself to feel a trifle disappointed.

She rolled onto her back and thought about it. “I haven’t seen the second floor yet.”

 

They went to Bert’s office first. The door wasn’t locked, and Megan just knew that there would be something weird enough inside to justify their snooping. She was right.

“Megan?” Michael asked in a low, disturbed voice.

“Yes?”

“Is that a fish doing a lady?”

“It’s an octopus, which is a cephalopod,” Megan said. “But essentially, yes.”

He shook his head. “I just don’t understand art.”

They shut the door carefully behind them, to prevent anything from following them out. When a man was capable of keeping a painting like that in his office - well, you never knew.

It was pleasantly illicit, the thrill of the familiar turned strange. Megan found she enjoyed wandering through the deserted building with only Michael and the stretched out shadows for company. She had never seen the office so quiet. They might have been the only two people on earth.

He took her on a tour, narrating the occupants and purposes of the offices as they passed. “This is where Bob sits - but you don’t know Bob. And they moved Joan right here when she took over accounts. So this is Dawn’s desk, since Dawn is her secretary now.”

Joan had exacting standards, but it still had to be easier than working for Don. Megan picked up a picture off Dawn’s desk and looked at it. It was a child’s drawing, blobby pink flowers in a yellow vase.

“Her goddaughter drew that,” Michael said.

Megan wasn’t sure if she wanted kids herself but she had always liked them. Her relationship with Sally was the one thing from her marriage worth retaining. Sally called her on a regular basis to complain about her friends, or her parents, or boys. But mostly her parents. Whenever Megan was in the city she stopped by to see her - they had gone for lunch the week before Christmas. She had been making noise lately about visiting Megan in L.A. over the summer. Megan had waffled regarding asking Don, but she decided she had to. She owed Sally that much.

He might even say yes. Betty was the hard sell when it came to Megan seeing her daughter. She had expected that Megan would disappear from their lives the minute Don was done with her.

When Megan put the picture back down she knocked the phone off the desk. They both jumped at the crash and then laughed weakly, embarrassed.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, self depreciating. “It gets spooky with the lights off.”

“Don’t do that,” she warned him. “We’re alone, we’re in the dark, and we’re locked in. That’s how horror movies get started.”

They took refuge downstairs, back in creative. This time they didn’t play cards, just sat companionably side-by-side talking. Michael told her that he had moved back in with his father temporarily because Morris had a broken leg and was being a stubborn old goat about staying off of it. He had spent the morning at home in order to glare at his father every time he moved, not getting in the shower until noon and arriving at the office in the early afternoon.

“I hope he’ll follow doctor’s orders to spare himself the trouble of dealing with me. Also I got one of the neighbors looking in on him, just in case.” Michael said. “But he gets stir-crazy, so who knows. He might call me claiming he witnessed a murder next.”

Megan kicked off her shoes and sat with her legs tucked under her, skirt pooling around her thighs. Ten minutes before she had washed her makeup off in the bathroom and retired her earrings to her purse for the night. She explained that she was back in town for a limited engagement on the soap. She wasn’t starving to death in L.A., but it was all commercials and being in crowd scenes, far away from the actual movie stars. It would be foolish to turn down regular work.

“Who is it they’re bringing back?” Michael asked offhand. “Corrine or Colette?”

“You watch?” Megan said with undisguised glee.

He realized his mistake too late and tried to backtrack, but she was on to him. “I don’t watch, I’ve - a couple times, okay? I’ve seen it a couple of times.”

“It’s always nice to meet a fan. Would you like an autograph?” Megan said wickedly, being perhaps a bit unfair. It was too good to pass up.

“The sheer ego on display here,” he said, and attempted to escape her. She foiled him by stretching out her legs across his lap, blocking him in, and she would be lying if she said his reaction wasn’t gratifying. He sat back down very slowly, fingers lightly touching her ankle.

But what he said next had nothing to do with it, coming solely from the mystery that was his brain. “They going to be doing all that crazy shit with your hair again?”

She had to puzzle that one out. “You mean the wigs? God, the blonde one was awful.”

“Why don’t they leave your hair like it is? It’s so pretty already.”

“Thank you,” Megan said reflexively, surprised at how touching she found the simple compliment, the honest admiration of it. He looked inexcusably attractive in the warm lamplight. It made his rumpled clothes look more dishabille and less stressed-out copywriter.

He checked his watch. “Forty minutes to midnight. Want to go find a T.V. and watch the ball drop? I bet I can rustle up some champagne.”

“The champagne sounds good,” Megan said. “But let’s skip the ball.” She had never understood the significance of it, all those people waiting around in the cold for something so boring. Fireworks would have been better. “I’d rather just look out at the lights.”

His face brightened and he unceremoniously dumped her legs off his lap. “Wait here - I have an idea.”

He raced off, much to her bafflement. When she tried to peek - he was going past with something wrapped in a knitted blanket - he chided her and hurried her back inside. “Five minutes,” he said.

It took him fifteen. She waited none too patiently, pretending to read a magazine while glancing up at the door every five seconds.

She had too much pride to say _finally_ when he got back, but only just. “It’s ready?” she asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of her voice.

“Right this way,” he said, offering her his arm. She took it, smiling, and they crossed the floor like a courting Victorian couple.

 

He wanted to walk her in with his hands over her eyes. She let him, inching carefully along so she wouldn’t bang into anything and feeling preoccupied with the light pressure of his fingers against her eyelashes. It took a second for her to adjust when he pulled away, and when she did -

They were in Don’s office. He had opened the blinds - the city lights, as requested - and had dragged the sofa over so it was facing the window. There was an afghan spread across the cushions, and he had indeed discovered some champagne. It was sitting on the coffee table along with two glasses. On the wall he had tacked up the Happy New Year banner from the breakroom and bordered it with a crooked little string of Christmas lights. They twinkled merrily, a couple of bulbs blinking in and out at random.

“Is it okay?” he asked.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and meant it.

He turned on the radio and they tucked in, sipping warm champagne and watching the snow drift across all those tiny windows, those pinpricks of light against the dark. It looked like a picture, the kind that had enticed Megan to set out for New York years ago. They counted down by their watches when the radio started playing Auld Lang Syne, saying out loud and in unison: ten, nine, eight…

“Happy New Year, Michael,” Megan said at midnight, and kissed him. She kissed him because he had never been kissed on New Year’s before and he deserved that. She kissed him because of the room and the view and because she wanted to.

If the kiss was more open mouthed than it needed to be, that was her fault. But it was also lingering, achingly slow, and that was all on him. She didn’t know who to blame for the way they ended up necking like keyed up teenagers, his hands sliding under her skirt, her legs tangled up with his.

He kissed the corner of her lips, her temple, the crease of one closed eyelid. It drove her crazy and she caught his mouth again, wanting more. He made a low, urgent sound when she scraped her teeth along the pulsepoint of his neck and she took advantage shamelessly, sliding her thigh between his legs.

“Oh,” he said, head falling back.

“Oh,” she echoed, kissing him and grinning against his lips.

She tugged his tie loose and tossed it aside, but he stopped her when she started on the buttons of his shirt. “Megan, I - I don’t,” he stammered, “I don’t have any rubbers.”

“I’m on the pill.” She gave up on him and unzipped her dress, sliding it down over her shoulders, and peeled off her nylons while she was at it. He swallowed when she climbed into his lap in her underwear.

“Do you still want to stop?” she murmured, and giggled when he rocked forward, putting her on her back.

Megan took her bra off, shrugging out of the straps and letting it fall to the floor. She liked the look on his face - she liked it a lot. When he traced her nipple lightly with the pad of his thumb she sighed.

“You like that?” he asked, touching her with more confidence.

“I’d like your mouth more,” she said, because she had never been shy about asking for what she needed in bed.

He did as she asked, using his tongue and teeth - carefully, carefully - sucking until she tingled, just short of getting sore. She could feel the heat rising in his skin when she cupped his cheek, guiding him.

“Okay,” she said, pleasurable shivers running through her. “Okay, that’s good. Come here.” She was getting wet, her panties sticking to her, and she wanted them off.

He was panting and flushed and - in his clothes, still. What had they been thinking? She stripped him to the waist and went down on her knees, getting in between his spread legs.

“Megan, wait - I -”

His hands cupped her shoulders - not restraining, or grabbing, but holding on as though she was keeping him upright.

“I want to go down on you,” she said, unbuckling his belt.

“Oh,” he said, faintly, and stopped getting in her way.

She pulled his pants off and squeezed his knee. He inhaled frantically when she slipped her hand inside his boxers, his eyes fluttering shut. She started out slow - mapping the tense lines of his thigh with her fingernail, pulling his cock out gently, pressing a wet kiss to the head.

The muscles in his legs jumped when she licked him, all the way up. He said her name - or some strangled version of it - and she took him in her mouth, sucking hard.

She let herself get messy, taking him as deep as she could, lips stretched and her chin slick with her own spit. His hands were in her hair, cradling her head. She could feel him trembling and the sounds he made when she rubbed her tongue against him were amazing. She pressed her thighs together, trying to alleviate the ache between her legs.

‘Fuck,” he was saying, “I - fuck -”

She let him slip free for a second, needing to catch her breath. To her surprise he pulled her up, kissing her in a desperate clash of teeth, licking into her mouth. She had been with guys who wouldn’t even kiss afterwards - clearly he didn’t have that problem.

He tugged her panties down and she stepped out of them. She was wet down her inner thighs, wild with need. He touched her tentatively, exploratory stroking that only made it worse.

“Like this,” she said, taking his hand, pushing his fingers inside her, hissing at how good it felt. Her cunt clenched greedily around his fingers when he moved them. He pressed down on her clit with his thumb, rubbing back and forth, and she was so worked up that she came.

“Shit,” she gasped, and swayed forward into his embrace.

“Uh,” he asked, “does that mean we’re done?”

“God, no,” she said, and showed him just what she meant. He fucked her half off the couch, his feet braced against the floor and her legs locked around his waist. She wrapped her arms around his neck, clutching at his hair, her back arched like a pulled bowstring. He couldn’t get words out, clinging to her as though they were shipwrecked, fucking these frenzied animal noises out of her, high pitched and raw, on and on until -

She came again, a shot of lightning to the spine, and yanked on his hair completely by accident. It set him off and he came almost silently, hips stuttering, face twisting like he was in pain.

Megan felt drugged, twitching with the aftershocks, her legs weak. It was fantastic. She kissed Michael and he responded groggily, hardly able to move. His pupils were blown.

“Wow,” he said, in a slurred voice.

Megan laughed because there was a giddy kind of joy welling up inside her. “I know.”

They scraped themselves up somehow and collapsed together on the sofa, lying down properly. He carded his fingers through her hair while she tried not to fall asleep.

Once she was fully recharged - after a quick nap - Megan straddled him again. The second time was lazier and sweeter. She stayed on top and watched the way his shoulders tightened, the strain in his jawline, cataloging everything. Committing it to memory, just in case.

 

They woke to harsh winter sunlight pouring in the windows. Megan experienced fifty seconds of morning after bliss, cuddling in and yawning, and then Michael said _fuck_ in an appalled way and hauled the afghan up over them roughly.

“What -” Megan said, and looked up into the faces of a very amused cleaning woman and a very _unamused_ security guard.

“I’d apologize for my colleague’s mistake last night,” said the security guard, “but it looks like you folks found a way to entertain yourselves.”

He waited a beat - presumably for them to realize the error of their ways - and continued on. “The doors are open now, if you would like to get yourselves composed. I can call you a cab.”

“Thank you,” Megan muttered, and the audience left. She and Michael slipped out of their makeshift bed and passed items of clothing back and forth as they found them scattered across the carpet. Neither of them spoke, too tongue-tied with mutual humiliation to try.

They were both wrecks, crazy haired and dressed in wrinkled clothes. Megan had discovered a big run in her nylons when she put them on and she wished she had a comb. She felt naked even after making herself decent.

She had to go fetch her shoes from creative and passed the cleaning woman on the way there. She was vacuuming the floor, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Michael held the elevator door for her. She thanked him so formally they might as well have been strangers.

It was a long ride down.

He turned towards her, once, opened his mouth, and just - balked. Let it drop completely, eyes downcast. Megan wished she had the courage to push him on it, to say something herself. To tell him - she wanted -

She didn’t know what she wanted.

Don’s office was in complete disarray. The decorations were still up, the champagne bottle was sitting on the table right where they left it, and oh god the state of that couch. Would Don know? Had they forgotten anything that could be used to identify one of them?

“Michael,” she asked in alarm, “What happened to your tie?” He wasn’t wearing it, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. She thought she could see the shape of a hickey on his throat, but that might have been a shadow.

“In my pocket,” he said, looking puzzled, and she felt stupid for overreacting.

The elevator doors opened. He let her go first, hanging back.

She was relieved to see a cab idling outside the building. The garish yellow and black check had never been so beautiful.

Michael didn’t follow her out. “I don’t think we’re going the same way,” he said.

No. She supposed they weren't.

She was giving the driver instructions when Michael came tearing out of the building towards the cab, feet skidding in the snow. His coat was open and he was agitated, waving his arms around and calling her name.

“Megan, wait! Wait!”

“What?” She threw open the door and he grabbed it, wedging himself in between her and the frigid street.

“I don’t know how long - before you go back to L.A. - do you - I was wondering, could we -”

“Slow down,” she said. “I can’t understand you.”

He took a breath. “Do you want to go out sometime? I mean, for real.”

Megan could feel the smile appear on her face as if by magic, couldn’t seem to stop it. She didn’t want to try. The morning was so much brighter than it had been just moments before.

“Yes,” she said, “I would love to.”

The driver watched with interest as Megan scribbled her hotel’s phone number on the back of a business card, plainly nosy, but she didn’t care. She pressed the card into Michael’s hand, admonishing him not to lose it. Even if he did, well - she knew where he worked.

She kissed him before she left, quick and close to chaste, and this time it was a promise.


End file.
